Opposites Attract
by Vcorrigan
Summary: What happens when two blondes of different orgin, environment, and attitude realize their emotions for one another? Well, opposites attract, of course! Kenny/Tweek


**A/N:** This was lost in my dA account, written for a lovable friend back in 2006. I'm uploading it here just to have everything in one place, and because, rereading, I kinda like Kenny ;) Enjoy! 

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Opposites attract, everyone says it when you need a helping hand getting pulled out of a relationship slump, or when you're dating a complete asshole. Well, bullshit.

Opposites do not attract. A sweet, shy little girl that's never dated in her life isn't going to get together with some slum jerk that's been around every block in town. Twice. That doesn't invite love or lust, that invites domestic abuse. It just wouldn't work. Like a cheerleader wearing her skirts up to her cooch with a fake tan, eyes coated in a layer of pink makeup and bleached hair isn't going to be found fucking around with the captain of the Thespian squad, who just happens to have about three-hundred community service hours. That invites giving birth to children with Downs Syndrome.

The "opposites attract" argument is flawed, and don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. In science maybe that's true with magnetic poles, but in reality we don't go around crashing into our perfect lovers. Our asses don't magically stick to the person that would be the best buttbuddy ever. If that happened, there would be people running into walls and getting maimed even more then usual. It just doesn't happen like that.

You have to get to know a person, learn their interest, traits that appeal to you, and the ones you could live without. You chat idly about the weather, things they did over the weekend, slowly compile a file in your brain about what makes them tick. You learn through their friends and who they hang out with, what they eat during lunch, how they respond to questions; if the person is hesitant and pauses to gather what they wish to share, or speak their mind for seven full minutes, without taking a breather. You share about yourself, and instead of figuring out what they did after school, you're there, watching a movie and having popcorn fights, or playing indoors hide-and-seek as a snow storm beats the house violently outside. You start enjoying their company more and more, seeing the good even within the bad, loving the person for every interesting quirk like chewing toenails and leaving lights on. If you become really great friends, you'll learn their masturbation schedule and what they fantasize about while having a self-therapy session.

Of course, none of that applies here, within a whole different world on Earth. Normal cities, towns, states, countries, I imagine that's how it works. But not in South Park, population 384. Not in a town that counts pets as citizens just to make us seem a little more important than Middle Park.

Here, at the age of four you already know who your friends are going to be for the next fourteen years, who are your enemies. You learn everyones names, where they live, what their parents do. You join cliques, watch as interest change, not breaking loose from those few people in your life that are like your own little family. You watch as playing house changes to Pokemon, to playing sports on a Little League teams, and then warps to wanting CDs, electronics, clothing instead of toys. You save your money for a ticket to the movies or night at the arcade instead of pogs and Megaman figures. You watch your friends change in appearance, get impelled to doing things outside your clique, gain public status.

And then you hit freshmen year, and it all goes to Hell. Within two months of summer all ideals, all goals, change completely. It's not a "yeah me and the guys" thing anymore, it's not a social war between dependant groups, it's all an independence deal. Sure, you've still got those same friends you've had for-freakin'-ever, but you change, you branch out, you get to know other people. In a town so small, it's a conquest of the individual to get to know as many people as possible, fuck around with them too. This way when those four years of high school are over and your parents ship you out to some big fancy college you really can't afford, you can tell your roommates when Token becomes the next American Idol, "Yeah, I totally played with _his_ balls. Damn, was I drunk that night." And when they don't believe you, you can whip out photos from your old, outdated cellphone that shouldn't even work anymore, considering how many times it's been barfed on or dropped in the toilet.

My list of conquest is extensive; I've got hook ups to every one in my grade, underclassmen, upperclassmen, it doesn't matter to me. Some I'm tighter with than others, sure, but my horizon was broadened, and in ten years I could call just about anyone in my generation up and talk like no tie was ever lost. And no, not everyone on my list was a sexual exploration, I do fear the super AIDs you know.

My first, my favourite, was Wendy. Top of the class, most popular girl you could get your hands on; all the guys wanted her, all the girls wanted to be her. During fall she did volleyball, spring track, whenever else she got the time was dedicated to swimming. She had outstanding grades and led the debate team to victory each year. She had the money to get by with splurging, a mother who was her best friend, a father that would buy her anything she ever wanted, but she never took advantage of it. She helped in the community to brighten the town's spirits, and organized the Christmas shows every December. She was the perfect human model in the public's eyes. However, what they didn't know was her addiction to LSD, how she actually forged names on her community services papers and went to party when she as supposed to be tucked in bed. This was eighth grade, mind you, and one day she just snapped and had a complete breakdown at lunch, claiming the stress was too much. And when Wendy fell from grace, I was there to pick her up. She was a pretty good fuck, but it lasted about two months before she crawled into Craig's bed, and has been there ever since.

Oh well, it was about that time I _really_ met Esther. She was voted into Wendy's place as popular girl completely against her will. Unlike Testaburger, she was a drama nerd, an art geek, band dork…about the only thing that could put her in as "popular" was cheerleading, and she only did that because her mother made her do something to flaunt her feminism. She was different, a spicy, catty individual that wouldn't hesitate to drop the "F" bomb or slap you if you were a jerk. She knew how to protect herself, knew how to pick fights, and damn did I want her. She became a good friend after Wendy's downfall, but nothing more. Well, we tried anyway, but Conner didn't like that and ended up breaking that off violently. Like, with a two-by-four with rusted nails in it. That wasn't a fun way to die.

The next big one came in the form of Henrietta. Scum of society, angsty, self-mutilation lover. Obsessed with pain, tattoos, things out of the norm that could only be bought in Hot Topic. You know, normal Goth that thought everyone else was out to get her. That was an experience, can you say "bondage"? Holy fuck, you'd think she would be the one wanting the pain and whiplashes, but jeez. Henrietta was a dominatrix, and that did not settle well with me after sobering up. She lasted about three days.

Of course there were a few others, but they aren't important, not even the girls mentioned are. They don't excite me, make me smile that goofy smile like he does.

I'm not sure what attracted me to him. The others it was obvious; Wendy was brought down and needed a helping hand, Esther was a challenge, Henrietta was drunk, they all had nice tits and a pussy. He was insecure, paranoid, needed physical contact in assurance that people were real and he was indeed safe. He couldn't swim, ride a bike without falling, skateboard and roller blade, ski, snowboard, basically anything that involved balance and proper coordination for more than five minutes was a no-no. He was always hyped up on coffee, had different flavoured breath for the days of the week; mocha, peppermint, banana-coconut, ameretto, caramel, blackberry, mango, in that order. He was still small, scrawny, but to relieve himself of stress he played badminton. You know, the game with the little birdie thing and tennis rackets. I think he actually played it by himself most days, I mean, who the fuck plays badminton?

…Okay, that's a lie, I always make a habit of playing with him. Like, we're in that stage of friendship where we'd know each others masturbation schedules, except instead we plan out badminton, when's a good time, make our own team names, fanaticize about becoming big. That's how we roll.

Unfortunately, I don't want to be his stress-reliever friend, that makes me just like Craig. The football asshole that keeps Wendy in his thoughts before Tweek. Which is sad, if I'd never have let Wendy go, then Tweek would still have that comfort system he needed, that person to watch him, make sure everything was okay, assure him that the hot burner wouldn't shock him (even though mine does, shoddy piece of crap). And above all else, that's what he needed, someone to spend the night on weekdays just for the company, someone to tutor him in math and be there when things got too stubborn.

I sigh to myself as I look out the cracked window next to my bed, the sky a shattered grey colour, bringing out the green of the trees blossoming in the spring, the grass taking root as the ground thaws. It reminds me of Tweek's neon eyes, that shine in radiance of fear more times than not. A smile tugs my lips as I consider that, his cherub-like face that's become long in his years of puberty, but still has some baby fat that he'll outgrown when he hits eighteen or so. He seems to be immune to the embarrassment of acne, skin flawless except for the light splash of freckles that dust his body all over, or the scars for unfortunate accidents. Like across his pink lips always coated in saliva from having bit down a bit too hard one day, receiving three stitches for it.

I grin at the window; that was an experience. Just last year, now that I think about it. Basically it involved a cat, a mop, and electrical tape. You really don't want to know. But it reminds me that was the year he'd cut his hair short in an attempt to keep from yanking out chunks. It didn't look bad at all, but when it did grow back out it curled massively, so instead of the normal messy impale-pokes, it was like a monster of blonde curls ready to eat you. And they were amazingly soft when you finally talked him into letting you play with his hair, which usually resulted in pigtails or trying dreadlocks, until he spazzed out and wore a hat for two weeks.

The clouds break, sprinkling a mist over the town, melting clumps of snow before the bitter air solidified it to slush. Rain drips from clogged gutters, freezing on the outside to dangerous stalagmites, reforming by each drop sliding down the icy exterior. I laugh at the bitter irony of that, and run a hand through my messy blonde hair, glancing to the blinking, cracked digital clock telling me I'm seven minutes late to be at Tweek's.

Fuck.

I sigh to myself and stretch, cracking my knuckles as I slide out of bed with a yawn. I shouldn't be tired, but on sleepy raining days like this it's a prize not to be. And when I could be drinking coffee along side my Tweek, watching some cheesy movie and comforting him when it gets too emotional to bare…ah, I can't even begin to explain the easy fun of that.

I grab a jacket and throw it over a stained brown shirt as I head out of my cluttered and dusty room, trying to remember if that was spaghetti sauce or strawberry jam. The only sounds are that of the rain against the windows and Mom in the kitchen, making a helluva ruckus as she bakes, humming something sweet under her breath to herself. She's covered in flour all over, hair dusted to a rusty pink colour because of it as she pokes a batch of cookies in the oven. Despite being poor and having less than a grand in the bank account at all times, we get by, and she never seems to lose hope. Just doing little things, like baking cookies for my little sister and her friends, or making a wholesome dinner from something that probably would've been disgusting.

"Mama, I'm going out," I say with a small smile as she turns to me, face lightly fluffed in white, laugh lines looking soft. Those blue eyes, flecked in mint green that I was gifted with sparkle despite the dreary weather and conditions we inhibit.

"Well okay, Kenny, try not to get sick." What she means is, should I get sick, the only remedy we can afford is suicide. A few moments of pain, and then nothing, and the perk is I come back completely healthy. We can't risk getting anyone else in the house sick or we might pay with not having something for dinner.

I sigh and give a brief nod that shakes my hair into my face as I blow her a kiss. On the way out a grab one of those umbrellas that supposedly pops out when you hit a button, but really just gets jammed while your suede jacket gets ruined. American made products, ah, wouldn't be home without it.

On the porch I fight with the thing, banging it up against the house in an attempt to jar it loose, only succeeding when it decides to slam into my crotch. Gritting my teeth I shake the thing into opening and glare at my cat, that seems to be smirking at my horrible luck. Pulling my hood up, just in case, I make my way into the comforting rain with the umbrella casting a blue light onto me from above, my other hand jammed in my pocket.

I wonder what Tweek is doing. Is he waiting in the living room by the bayfront window, curled in a blanket, looking for the sign of a fairly waterlogged McCormick to appear? Is he in the kitchen, fixing some exclusive flavour of coffee to fight away the chill of the weather? Is he sitting on the back porch, attempting to figure out if we should still continue the game of badminton or not? Maybe he's in the backroom fiddling with the pool table, waxing the cues and straightening up. In some twisted part of my mind, he's in his room, on his bed, twisted in those feather-soft sheets and blankets of his, flushed from the heat of the house, naked, waiting, beckoning for his Kenny to come and keep him warm.

But you didn't hear that.

I know…it's wrong. Tweek is Tweek, poor insecure little guy that can throw one helluva punch. And I'm me, sexually experienced and devious. It just makes it look like I'd be taking advantage of him. Using him for a quick, easy fuck, and leave him hanging afterwards to pick up the pieces. Well, maybe that's what it looks like, but anyone that would believe that is a fucktard. Simple as that. I just want to be his protector, who he goes to for comfort; I want to be able to appear at his house when he's upset and have him fling himself dramatically in my general direction. I want to be the one that he goes to for advice over the simple or trivial, who he trusts with his deepest secrets and embarrassing childhood stories. I want to be the one his family loves like their own, knows that Kenny wouldn't do a thing to hurt their little darling.

Most of all, I guess, I don't want to be alone. No one outside of this town—Hell, no one in this town—would accept me as a lifelong partner because of my little affair with Thanatos. Who would really commit to a person that dies almost daily? Who knows when that death is the final one, when you'll have to pay for that funeral, live alone, support yourself. Who would want to have kids with the thought their Daddy might never return one day? No one. And that scares the fuck out of me, that I'm never going to have what the other guys do.

Tweek is different, though. He finds it interesting what I do when I die. He thinks it's "rad" that I've got friends in high—and low—places. Whenever I get back from a little afterlife excursion, he's always dragging me away to ask questions. One would think Tweek would fear for his own safety being friends with someone that kicks the bucket several times a week, but he doesn't. He accepts it…and craves more.

Hearing footsteps I'm drawn out of my thoughts and glance from the puddles I'm walking straight through to whoever is crazy enough to be out in the icy rain, to find myself watching Tweek take a corner at high speeds and nearly slip on the wet sidewalk. He squeals a bit, obviously not seeing me as water clings to those soppy curls and streams down his face.

What _is_ he doing out?

"Tweek!" I shout, but he's ignoring me and doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon. I glance down the street for a second and bolt across the striped pavement, cursing the difficulty of running with an umbrella.

Resigning to the fact I'm going to get wet anyway, I shut the umbrella in the motion of running and stumble, losing sight of Tweek around a corner for an instant before I whip around it and see headlights, the oblivious wet Tweak boy, and let out a scream.

Before I know it, I'm standing at the Golden Gates, weight a null issue, dry and knee-deep in the pearly clouds that make up Heaven's foundation. Heaving a breath I flash the security guard a VIP pass and walk in, ignoring the line of redeemed souls. Perk about dying? You end up with a good rep around the place.

But…why am I dead? I'm not sure, it all happened so fast…but I can't help but feel guilt and paralyzing fear grip at my insides, wondering if Tweek is okay. It doesn't stop me from looking around for the one bastard that stalks my life at all times and would know. Unfortunately, by the highpitched shriek it seems she's found me first.

Actually, let me explain something about those that guard the afterlife. When God was being all-mighty, he thought it'd be fucking hilarious to make angels androgynous. When the rebellion fell and Lucifer Morningstar lead the Fallen in the creation of Hell, gender became something that was needed, but didn't exist. For the sake of a headache, angels are referred to as "she", demons and the Fallen "he". Not the most accurate system out there, but it works.

I turn around an instant before I have vanilla waft around me and arms are encircling my shoulders, down-soft golden hair brushing my cheek. Awkwardly I hug her back and roll my eyes, not needing this. Uriel gives me a look, smirking as she crosses her arms over her chest, crystal eyes dotted in fading pink giving me an evil look that almost says, "At least it's you and not me."

"Gabriel, darling, please, I like the illusion of being able to breath," I say and pry her away from me. Gabriel _humphs_ to herself but that shit-eating grin doesn't diminish any.

"Well I just can't help myself when you die for the sake of others! That's a rare occasion, Kenneth dear. And the blonde you did it for is such a cutie too!"

"I think his name is Tweek, Gabriel," Uriel informs, receiving a deadly look before the angel returns to herself.

"Is that right? Yes, I guess it is! Well, Tweek is still quite a cutie, oh, I wouldn't mind showing him some love," Gabriel purred, wagging her brows suggestively with a devilish smile curling lips away from dazzlingly white teeth. "Oh, he'd be good, I know."

"Gabriel, darling, what would Beazelbub think if he heard you were oogling mortal children?"

"He doesn't need to know!"

"I think," I interrupt before they can go off on a tangent, "The question is 'What would Kenny think if he knew you were considering doing things to his man'."

Gabriel beams at that, and Uriel gives me a nasty look for mentioning it. "Oh dear, that's right! So when is the wedding? When do we get to meet him? Come now, Kenneth, details, details!"

This is another thing you have to get use to about the afterlife, putting aside all arguments the Church can come up with. Basically if you hear a debate and someone brings up "Well the Bible says this", slap them. Heaven doesn't follow the norms like you'd expect, neither does Hell. It's an everything goes situation, and you'd better be willing to embarrass the Hell out of yourself talking about it. Like now, who really expects to go into a long drawn out conversation about the same-sex relationship they want to enter, with _the_ archangel of archangels? Some days it's still a foreign concept to me, but it's something you either learn to accept or go crazy for the rest of your immortal life.

I sit down on the air with a smug look and lean back on my hands, supporting myself on nothing, watching the apprehensive angel. If I phrase the question the correct way, I'll get the answers I want without playing beat-around-the-bush.

"And why is it you want the nitty-gritty details, Gabriel sweety?"  
Okay, maybe it's just suck-up rather than a proper phrasal. There's no difference when it comes to the archangels.

"I'd like to know about the cutie you'd go out of your way to save, that's why," Gabriel says in a matter-of-fact tone, hands relocating themselves to her hips as she glares menacingly, giving me what I wanted to know. Thank you for being weird and stalking my mortal life, Gabe, I appreciate that. Just…not out loud I don't.

"Like what?" I ask sheepishly, not really up to going into this outside of my mind, but after all Gabriel has done for me I suppose I have to give her something.

"Oh now don't be coy, Kenneth, what do you like about the guy? What turns your crank about him?"

Everything, but if I say that I'll be here all day. "He accepts me, like no one else. I mean, my friends do, don't get me wrong, but I don't see myself with them." That would actually be relatively disgusting. Kyle is happily ensconced with Henrietta, Stan is playing bachelor, Eric loves himself a bit too much for my liking, and Damien is Damien.

"I don't know, I just…feel safe and secure when he's around. Like despite my little illness, despite the fact I end up hurting everyone else and let them down even when I try my fucking hardest, he won't leave me. He'll stay, he'll believe, and keep me from becoming the nobody society and life tries to make me.

"And he just deserves so much more than what he gets. He's got friends, sure, but they aren't reliable and that's what he needs, someone that won't judge and just keep him sane. And that's what I want do be, I mean, I can see myself with his crazy ass in ten years, frantically playing badminton and freaking out our room mates, you know? Sure, it's wrong by societies standards, we shouldn't be doing such things because we're both male, but fuck that. It's not a relationsex, it's a relationship."

I look up, irritation melting at the look Gabriel is wearing, astounded by what I said and that I can actually feel. I should've known better to include that last part, this is Heaven we're talking about afterall. Relations between the Fallen and archangels happen daily, like between Gabriel and Beazelbub, and that's a no-no in the Church. Interracial relations? In Heaven? Sex? Oh God no! How the Christians would be tainted with that information.

Uriel places a hand on Gabriel's shoulder before she can say something haughty and just smiled knowingly. "So basically you love him?"

"You could say that," I say, glancing down at the pearly clouds with a sheepish look, knowing from the heat under my skin I'm blushing furiously. Well shit, that just gives it away.

Gabriel flashes a grin and places her dainty, manicured hands on my shoulders and shoves. I look behind me, seeing the clouds open into a hole large enough to let me pass through, and before I can let out a cry I'm falling, Gabriel's smirking face beaming above me.

That's when there's pain. Well, not pain persay, just intense discomfort as the body recognizes a reason to live. It's sort of like when your foot goes numb and you try walking, the shooting needles and electric shock along the nerves as blood slides sickeningly slow through the arteries, feeling like cotton. The feeling that you pray will never happen again, even for just thirty seconds, but as soon as the last needle has vanished you go to work numbing your foot again. It's a horrible feeling, and yet oddly a turn-on.

Now imagine that throughout your entire body. Feeling the bloodflow sputter to a start, throughout arteries, veins, capillaries, crawling along every inch of your body. The sickening feeling of glucose straining, contracting muscles ore at a time, tissue inflaming around nervous receptors for an instant, causing a dull ache as adenosine triphosphate begins its creation and releases the muscles from its vicegrip. The feeling of organs springing back to do their functions, the slithering of digestive paste on cilia, bile snaking along from the liver to finish off whatever remained from the last meal. Or the shuddering, pounding heartbeats as the muscle contracted, pumping blood throughout the body once more. Not to pleasant, huh?

I bite back a groan, swallowing the discomforted complaint, the headache threatening to slice through my skull. I open my eyes, watch as the grey adjust, white figures dance in my vision before I make out the deep, sage-green colouration of the room, dimmed by the pouring rain outside. The wood paneling throughout the room and furniture is a matched ivory colour, spotless and unmarred, unless you count the disorganized stacks of papers and books scattered on the desks, mementos on the mantel, or random assorted objects on the side table. The orange glowing lava lamp tips me off to where I am, followed by the tranquility fountain, candles aglow, and the sweet sugary smell of cinnamon and vanilla.

But most of all, the slumped form of Tweek asleep in a gaudy beanbag chair, chest rising in a steady rhythm, hair wet and plastered to his face. He looks sweet, albeit a bit rumpled, clasping to a disgustingly dusty, squished bunny stuffed toy that looks like it has seen better days. I smile at his heavy breathing and slight whimpering that is too childish to be considered snoring, until I notice the slight tremour wracking his body and have to wonder why he doesn't have a blanket or something to fight off the chill. But then I notice how heavy my body seems, and snort back a laugh at the pile of blankets weighing me down.

"Always thinking of others, even corpses," I say to myself in a low whisper as I climb out from the massive pile of sheets and run a hand through my perfectly dry hair. Ah, another perk to dying and being reanimated. Shaking that thought off I grab a thick down blanket from the pile and walk over, kneeling by him, just watching him sleep for a few seconds before gently laying the blanket over his body and tuck it around his shoulders.

I nearly fall back on my ass as he jerks awake, swinging his arm as reflex and smacks me in the face. "Shit, right in the fucking ear," I mutter to myself, rotating my jaw until it pops, taking the strain from the joint. Don't let anyone fool you, Tweek has one mean right-cross.

"Kenny? Holy _shit_, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—gah! You scared the Hell outta me! Are you okay?"

I rub my ringing ear but I can't be mad at him, not with the concerned, wide-eyed expression he's giving me. Like a puppy that ate your sandwich and knows it has pissed you off, but still is wagging its tail because you have good taste in lunch.

"I'm fine—"

"But you got hit with a fucking _car_! Are you sure?"

"Tweek, think about what you just said. How many times have I been hit with vehicles moving at highspeeds before? I'm fine, truly and honestly. What about you, though?"

"Just a few scrapes is all," he says with a sheepish grin, avoiding my gaze as he rolls his sleeves up and exposes his arms. A few scrapes my ass, the whole underside of his arms is missing a few layers of skin and oozing, clotted in blood in a few choice locations. Though I've got to admit, to be completely paranoid he's pretty smart when it comes to reaction. Most people would go down on their wrist and snap the fragile bones there, the smart ones know to take a blow on their forearms.

"And you don't have those bandaged up because?"

"I couldn't do it with one hand, and it's not _that_ bad. I mean…you fucking _died_, and all I got were some scrapes!"

I balk, wondering how in the world he just managed to guilt trip himself, especially when his arms are dripping with white blood cells, and border the smell of infection. Even being me, those wounds look painful, and he doesn't seem bothered at all, considering he just had to peel his shirt away from it and probably took off scabs doing it. Shuddering at the thought I grab his shoulder and pull him to a stand, grimacing as his arms drip down his fingers and hit the carpet. Gross.

"Jesus, Tweek," I mutter, shaking my head is disbelief as he just gives me a puzzled look. I lead him into the bathroom, noticing he's favouring his left leg, and shove him roughly down on the toilet as I look under the counter, pulling out medical supplies. Unscrewing the cap of an ointment crème with my teeth and squeeze it onto his outstretched arms, rubbing it in as gently as possible with fingertips. He doesn't flinch, as he watches me, analyzes that I'm sticking my fingers in scrape goo and don't pull away, disgusted. Granted, I sort of want to as it's a fairly nasty experience, but I go about massaging the crème into the wounds and wrap his arms with guaze and bandages, butterfly clipping them closed. With that done I get up and wash my hands, covering them in watermelon smelling handsoap.

"You're limping, why?"

"Just a bruise," he says and yanks his pajamas up, holding out his right foot and wiggles his toes. The ankle is lost in swelling, so fat and fluid-induced that the bones aren't even visible. The skin is a deep shade of purple about halfway up his calf and fades to blue, red, tinged a bit with green and yellow. It makes me wonder if he broke something, but the way he's rotating the joint says otherwise. It's still fairly painful looking. I shake my head as he let's his foot fall, disbelieving the beating he took without complaint.

"So why were you out in the rain again?"

He looks down at his arms, admiring the handiwork for a second before ripping off toilet tissue and wipes away excess ointment with a shrug. "My dog ran away."

I snort, choking on a laugh and raise a brow as he glares at me. "Tweek darling, you don't own a dog. You have a ferret that you've got in your mind is a spawn of Damien's, and it's too neglected to be let out of its cage. Now what's the real reason?"

He just smiles coyly as he pulls his sleeves back down, long enough to cover his hands entirely and glanced up at me with a yawn. "I dunno, just felt the need. And I like the rain."

"Enough to nearly get killed, apparently," I say with a brow cocked and cross my arms. Hm, that sounds vaguely like divine intervention to me. I'll have to slap whichever smartass decided it'd be fun to screw with my life. With my luck it'll be someone like Nasroth or Ezekiel on a poker bet. Damnit.

"Yeah but I didn't." I watch as his resolve breaks in stages and he lifts his head, hard neon eyes swirling liquid emerald, uncertainty written there. A tremour shakes his hands that nervously wring together, knuckles a mottled purple and white as his fist tighten in on themselves. He bites his lip, enough that I know it has to hurt and looks down to the linoleum flooring. "I've never seen someone get hit…it was horrible. The screeching of rubber, crack of bones, so much blood…like even though it was raining and dim, it only made the blood worse…and…"

I don't have to hear it, I'm well aware. One would assume the dark cast of a storm would dull the Carnival Red, Candy Apple, Fire Engine Red colour of blood, but it only seems to brighten the effects, giving it a very surreal appearance. That's why I'm fond of night deaths, everything is black and washed of colour so the reality of it is stripped away. Too bad Thanatos doesn't agree and is keen to the daylight.

Although I don't want to think about it, the thought seeps into my mind anyway. How it had to have occurred. The point of impact would have been my left side, crushing the chest cavity inward to impale the vital organs. It would have been a killing blow at the angle the ribs would curl down, puncturing lungs, snapping away from the spine, rupturing the spinal cord. If that didn't do it, then actually getting run over would have, because reaction time to the break wouldn't have slowed the car in time. Which would imply that it was probably my shoulder and neck that got two-tons of German engineering pounded upon. Definitely would crush what was left of the chest cavity, crack shoulder blades, snap the spine at the base of the neck. If I was lucky, I would've broken my nose and jaw slamming onto the pavement, and even had my skull cracked at the impact. The you can't forget my legs would've been crushed as well, splintering under the weight, losing bone, snapping, fracturing. And the body does weird things, so I'm sure the kneecap was lost under strain and ended up turning backwards at an awkward, impossible angle.

Good times, man, good times.

I kneel down in front of him, clasping his hands in mine, firmly massaging his tight fist into a more relaxed state, knowing the strain can't be good for him. He avoids my gaze—well, no—it's more like he's looking back into the haunting memory, captured by it. Like when a murder occurs on your street, you're horrified that it could happen, but it's thrilling, so shocking, you just have to sit behind the police tape waiting for the inevitable.

"Tweek, shh, it's okay, I'm fine, remember you're talking about Kenny McCormick here."

He doesn't seem to want to listen though, too drawn into the moment to consider that, hey, I've had an affair with Death since I was a kid.

"Why would you go through pain to save me?"

_Because there is no pain_, but I don't tell him that, he'll never understand. Thanatos has been lax in his later years, figured out that hey, it's not fun to torture Kenny any more. So he kills me an instant before excruciating pain can happen. Like dying of shock as your plane takes a nosedive and you know you're going to go up in a firey explosion.

But then his question sinks in. Why would I? Most people would just stand back and yell something unintelligible and watch it happen. It doesn't effect you directly, just how you sleep for the next five months, why should you get involved? He had it coming to him, right? I can't agree. Part of my mind says I did it because I would've come back, and he doesn't have that ability. That's the logical side of my brain, the right side. The left side tells me it was all a divine set up induced for some weird artistic blackmail. What really matters, what I listen to, is my heart. Cheesy, I know, but nothing else is going to suffice in this situation.

I squeeze his hands and offer a kindly smile as I look into his blonde-framed face. "'cause I really would be crushed, killed, all the jazz if something happened to you and I _didn't_ do anything to stop it, you know? Like my lifespan would just fizzle out and not even the divine could save me. You mean the whole world to me, more than that, I'd risk life, death, afterlife to keep you safe. And…I guess…I love you, Tweek."

I always wondered what would happen if I dropped the "L" bomb. Would I get smacked, pistol-whipped, knocked in the gnads? Have scalding hot coffee spit in my face? Shock him into silence, rejected flat out? Or would clothing start to disappear and have a hot time while the ferret watched on?

What I wasn't expecting was him to throw his hands to his mouth, eyes wide as he shook his head. Instead of feeling shattered I just raised a brow, knowing there was something else to this reaction. "Shit, I'm sorry Kenny! But I can't kiss you! I just can't…"

"Please, don't be any more enthusiastic, you might kill me," I reply tartly, giving him a look that makes him squeak and blush furiously. Maybe I'm a bit angry, but I know Tweek better to know he's thinking something paranoid.

"No! I mean, I taste like coffee and blood! I can't kiss you yet, not until I brush my teeth. It'd be embarrassing…and I don't want you to think that."

I can't help but laugh, and he glares. But seriously, how could he say that and not feel dumb? As if I'm worried about what he taste like. And considering, coffee and blood is a bit of a turn on actually.

"That wouldn't be my first thought if you did, I'd be too lost in happy tingly hip-hooray to worry about the mocha-flavouring," I say in all honesty. Oh, yes, never doubt Tweek's agility either. One second he's giving me a confused, utterly promising look from the toilet, the next he's got me shoved on my ass, sitting in my lap, hands wrapped tightly in my hair as he smooshes himself against me. Under the coffee, the metallic taste of copper is something else that I recognize almost immediately and pull away with a brow raised, smirking indignantly.

"You had garlic bread. While I was dead in your bed, you were eating garlic bread. What sort of sick freak are you?"

"I was hungry! And you don't have to rhyme everything! Worse than Dad and his—"

Unfortunately I don't get to hear his complaint about metaphors as I attack his lips with mine, savouring the electricity it shoots through me as he lets out a surprised squeak and melts to the touch. The taste of garlic bread, despite my publicly known loathing of it, is just another thing I'm willing to risk for my Tweek. Though I think I'd rather lick garlic sauce from his chest than the crevices between his teeth.

What happens next? Parental intervention? Movietime? Badminton in the rain? Let's just say it involves the pool table, vinaigrette oil, silk ribbons, and Oregano. And the ferret? It watched, enjoyed, and made things a bit more kinky for all of us.


End file.
